Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

❧

Sunlight peeks in through the windows of the living room where Kiryu sits, with a half-asleep engineer resting in his lap. The plywood is covered in papers and papers and papers scattered in crooked rows, sketches of imaginary structures, nuts and bolts glistening like silver rosebuds in the pink light of dawn. Another all-nighter—wouldn't have it any other way.

Like a spinning wheel, they’ve come around full circle after all these years.

Kiryu exhales softly through his nose and raises his harmonica to his lips. The melody he plays is sweet, honeyed notes that hum all apologies. If he plays enough, maybe the notes will smooth out the scars on Yusei’s body and comfort him-

“Kiryu?”

Ah—Kiryu pauses, lowering the harmonica. He looks down at Yusei, who shifts a bit to face him. "Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No," he murmurs, his voice low and sleepy. Kiryu feels his heart swell and rocket away like a spinning wheel when Yusei smiles, eyes closed. "You can keep playing."

Chapter Text

"How's that studying?"

"It's been five minutes, Fubuki," Ryo mutters, not bothering to look up from his book. "I don't have time to goof off. You should be reading up, too."

"Hm, I will. But not yet." Fubuki's voice is all smiles, sing-songy as he strums a breezy chord on his ukulele. Ryo can picture the look on his face without seeing it: a cheerfully distracting grin framed by the flowers on his stupid, kool-aid-red Hawaiian-print shirt. His legs swinging lightly back and forth in his seat on the windowsill, the glow of violet dusk behind him and his round gentle eyes making goo-goo faces at Ryo until he pays attention to him-

Plunk!

Ryo inhales sharply through his nose. "Fubuki."

"Hmmm?"

And Ryo leaves it at that, knowing he got the message. Sure, he might be a clown, but they’re both fluent in silent cues and implications by now. The room is quiet. A few crisp page-turns and paragraphs later, and Ryo has forgotten Fubuki exists in his vicinity. He’s forgotten anything exists around him at all—the dorm, the campus green, the ocean, the stars, all but the things he knows he must commit to memory. Information. Theory. Mechanics. These are the things that shape skill; they earned the Kaiser his title. Slacking off at all would be negligence, with so many eyes upon-

A single string peeps a tiny, high-pitched squeak. Just once. Ryo doesn't move.

Don't entertain it. 

Don't acknowledge it. 

...

Okay. Ryo sighs, shoulders relaxing as he jots down some more notes. What was he thinking about? Oh, right. The obligation to success. Everyone is watching, and not only here at the academy. All over the world he has a reputation to keep, a role model image to uphold. Especially for kids like Sho, who could use a lesson or two about decorum and respect in duels. After graduation, this will be even more crucial; he’ll be out on his own in the Pro Leagues. For a moment, he pauses and taps the pen he’s holding against his desk. How will they all keep in touch? How will he wake up each morning if not to the sound of his hopeless best friend emptying the dishwasher too loud? It’s the thought that counts, but still. Fubuki doesn’t know how to be quiet. Not when he’s singing in the shower for forty-five minutes, not when he’s building fancy papier-mâché props for live-action duels (he has to over-pronounce it like that every time), not when he’s sniffling into a box of tissues by the light of his laptop at 10 PM (for someone so sentimental, he watches way too many sad movies; does he enjoy being upset? Ryo never quite understood it).

Every little thing Fubuki is—every tilt of his head, every goofy smile on his lips, every progression of sweet chords—Ryo can’t imagine his life without them. And in a few months, he’ll have to. 

Maybe he ought to tell him the truth before he-

Peep!  

That's it. Ryo jumps up and storms over to where Fubuki is sprawled out on the windowsill, who squeals and laughs as he tries wrestling the ukulele from his grasp. "Nooooo, no, careful! You'll break her,” he wails, thrashing about. “Be nice!"

"You should've thought about that before you started being-" Ryo sputters as Fubuki's elbow whacks him in the mouth, both tangled up in a mess of arms and legs. "Before you started being annoying!"

"Okay, okay! Just- ahh, I’m ticklish, that’s not fair! I'll stop, I promise! If-"

"If?"

"If," Fubuki wheezes, but still manages a goofy wink. "You let me serenade you from the balcony. Just once."

No. He doesn’t get to be romantic after acting like a little fool. After Ryo spent at least ten minutes silently mourning his hypothetical absence. So he snorts, shoving Fubuki's face away with his open palm so he can't see his ears turning scarlet. That would only invite more teasing. "If you want to play on the balcony, fine,” he huffs, “but don't make it sound like…”

“Like what?”

Ryo doesn’t have to picture the look on his face as he stares holes through it—a pout, a few bats of his long eyelashes. An unapologetically coy tease, baiting him to respond.

“Urgh," Ryo gives up, shooing Fubuki out and sliding the door closed with a plastic slap. “You know damn well what I mean! Just stay here until I’m done, and then we can go get dinner. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Fubuki presses his nose and cheeks pathetically against the cold glass. He starts strumming a song that Ryo can't hear, but he’s certain is from one of many sappy romance movies that put him to sleep halfway through.

Chapter Text

Collapsed parking garages, caved-in apartment complexes, empty streets—these are things they have learned to see. The body of a place long forgotten. The gnarled skeletons of urban playgrounds are harder to sift through; it probably won’t get easier, no matter how long they four shadows search the vivisected city for survivors.

But there is something about the wet, stained-glass bones of churches that Z-one still cannot stomach. He stands in the shadow of a tall, stone angel at the altar, feeling the storm wash over him through holes in the tall ceiling. Crumbling wings frame the back of his head with a crown of glistening silvery-gray; overhead, four long, arching windows bare their broken teeth of absinthe and gold, cracked-open mouths that wail as they let the wind into the cathedral. Their lost shards swim in pools of rainbow light with the rain.

Z-one leans down and lifts a jagged piece of clear glass from the floor. A stranger’s eye gazes wearily back at him.

“Do we have the right, Antinomy?”

When called, Antinomy peers over at him from the pews. “Hm?”

“The right to fix this,” he murmurs. “Can we truly change the future as gods do?”

There’s a pause in Antinomy’s expression—of course. Z-one knows that it was he who breathed into this man what little faith he clings to in the dark, dusty wasteland they call home. For him to express even a moment’s doubt must be terrifying. Naturally. He sighs through his nose and turns away. “Never mind that. I was simply thinking aloud-” 

“Whether or not we have the right to become as gods doesn’t matter.”

Before Z-one can turn around, Antinomy has already approached. When their eyes meet, he places a hand on his shoulder. “We have no want for power beyond what we need to save our world. Our home,” he says, as if the words are simple. As if the noble intentions cannot be corrupted by time nor decay. “When we win this war, there will be people in these empty aisles. There will be people here, and they’ll be singing with the angels they’ve built.”

Z-one would give anything to believe him, if only for a moment. To believe in the world Antinomy sees through his rose-colored glasses. But whether or not he believes, it must be done. Whether or not they have the right to change the course of history, it must be changed. He closes his eye. “You have a beautiful imagination, Antinomy.”

“It’s only a dream if we let it be. Trust me, Z-one. Like I trusted you with my life,” he reaches out and brushes a hand against Z-one’s cheek, waking him from his thoughts. “Like I still do. We can- no. We will overcome this.”

As Antinomy leans forward, Z-one closes his eye again. His kiss is slow and deep like a mournful hymn. Z-one inhales as Antinomy parts his lips to reach into him, as if his wanting tongue can pull the despair out from his heart. With each gasp that escapes him, he forgets the sea of glass at his feet, the crumbling angel, the crooked street signs, the city of decay outside of these cathedral walls. He lets Antinomy pull him close, grasp at the back of his coat as he presses their lips together again and again in a holy refrain.

They clasp their arms around each other in silent prayer, waiting for the storm to pass.

Chapter Text

When Yusei comes to, he squints to sort out the blurred details of his room through bruised eyes. The shelves, cluttered with blueprints, charcoal pencils, pens, raw parts and rusted bolts… the window facing the square, where no light filters through. Only the stars, glimmering to welcome him back. He winces as the details of his body become clearer, too; reaching a hand up to his neck, he hisses at the throb of another sensitive bruise. There are bandages carefully wrapped around his knuckles, some across his arms where he can feel stinging nicks and gashes underneath. How did he get home? What time is-

"Yusei?"

"Nngh… Bruno?"

There he is, wide-eyed and visibly exhausted. Yusei blinks slowly, registering his presence. Bruno sits in a chair pulled up beside the bed, a first aid kit in his lap and a tall glass of water on the nightstand; Yusei can only imagine he's been beside him for a while, waiting for him to wake up. He shouldn't have had to do that. Yusei's confused expression softens to quiet guilt. "I'm sorry, Bruno. This is my fault-"

"No," Bruno shakes his head immediately, then reaches out to brush Yusei's bangs away from his eyes. Yusei falls quiet at the honeyed timbre of his voice, low and warm like sunlit sand on a familiar shore. "It's my fault. I should have gone with you to pick up the supplies. You blame yourself too much, Yusei," he smiles sadly, his voice laden with worry. Always fussing over him, always fretting over the details. Maybe a worrywart is exactly what makes a good mechanic, Yusei wonders. "It can be my fault, this time. Okay?”

Yusei sighs. “I’ll take half the blame,” he relents. “And we can call it even- urgh," he winces. "My neck. How bad does it look?"

"Oh. It's, ah- it’s not too bad," he says, closing his eyes and cupping Yusei's cheek, pressing their noses together. "But you'll feel better if you wear, um… turtlenecks, I think. For the rest of this week."

Yusei leans into Bruno's warmth, but peeks one eye open—he peers down at the hand remaining in Bruno's lap, holding the lid of the first aid kit. He wonders if the blood trickling down Bruno's knuckles is his. "I'll have to go shopping for some, then."

They lean closer together in the dark, comfortable blue of the room. Bruno shifts so he’s sitting on the bed with Yusei, pulling him into his arms without a word; their conversations are often like this, spoken through touch and gentle silence where words are an unnecessary burden. Bruno runs his fingers through Yusei’s hair and cradles him against his chest. “I’m just glad you’re safe,” Bruno murmurs. “We can go shopping wherever you want—you can wear any color turtleneck in the world, too. Any kind you want.”

“Haha,” Yusei buries his face in the fabric of Bruno’s shirt, laughing softly. “Which color do you think suits me?”

“Hmm. Blue, maybe?”

As he rubs Yusei’s back, Bruno reloads the scene in his mind, scrutinizing every frame and every millisecond with shame.

There were six. 

If not for the clatter of their footsteps and indistinct shouting, he wouldn't have made it in time. Bruno drops his wrench with an echoing clang and sprints up the block. 

"Just hand it over. Come on."

"Yeah, you're a celebrity now, right? You can spare the change, heheh."

The thunk of a fist meeting jaw. Someone hits the pavement. "You little- argh!" Bruno runs faster, his ears parsing every motion and sound they can hear. Yusei can fight. He can defend himself, just a little longer, he can do it. Another body falls, heavier this time, and then, then Yusei, his voice strained-

"Hnngh," the kick of his boots against flesh, against the knees. " Ghk…!"

A human would've been too late to catch the sight before him—as he rounds the corner, Bruno’s eyes widen and register six men, all crowded around Yusei. One leather-gloved rider shoves him against the brick wall of the dilapidated alley, hands gripping his throat.

Yusei's arms slide off the man's wrists not a second later, going limp at his sides.

"Aaaaagh!"

Lightheadedness grips Bruno and his nerves cut him off from his leaden arms and legs. His vision snaps to a red-tinted daze, and he knows what comes next. If a human cannot save Yusei Fudo, an angel with metal bones can create a miracle.

"The hell are you?" The man holding Yusei snatches the wallet from his pocket and tosses him aside, leaving him like trash on the curb. "You didn't see anything. Get outta here."

The divine machine takes one thundering step forward in response, synthetic flesh and chrome pistons firing in his chest. All of the assailants turn to witness him. 

His body will carry out the will of a god he can't remember, a stranger with no name to utter in prayer.

Bruno watches himself leap forward from a state of slow, heavy sleep paralysis, dragged across the street at sprinting velocity; he tries opening his mouth to scream and cry out for Yusei, but his jaw may as well be rusted shut. Restrained by his own limbs and the blood splattering on his knuckles from every numbed strike he lands, he tries at least to look at Yusei, focus his scarlet eyes on his unconscious body sprawled out on the sidewalk- is he alive? He must be. Has to be. If he is not something terrible will happen, what is it, what is that truth he cannot access? All he knows is that there are no conditionals beyond that point, no more lines of holy code to command his heart, no further purpose buried in his silver bones if Yusei Fudo dies here. So he won’t. He

As his arms dart out to grasp one of the attackers’ legs Bruno repeats this to himself, a small reprieve from the muffled screams ringing outside his head. Yusei will not die. It’s that simple. For a moment Bruno smiles as his hands bend and bend the calf until the tender ligaments crack. His heart shakes, but his eyes refuse to let him cry. There’s no reason to cry at all—the violence is right, isn’t it? It feels good, justified. Something like serotonin flows through him, cooling the steam in his rattling engines. Another snap of sinewy muscle and bone, the swell of blood circulation cut off at a wailing man’s shoulder. This is okay, right? Just wait it out. It’s almost over and almost and

And when it is

“Huh?”

When he wakes in his own body again, Bruno struggles to grasp the details of the room around him. He squints to sort through the blurred shapes—shelves cluttered with blueprints, charcoal pencils, pens, raw parts and rusted bolts… a window facing the square, where no light filters through. Only the stars shining in cold constellations. They know what he has done and where he has been.

How did he get up the ladder carrying him? Did he wake up the whole house? What time is it, anyway? What happened- that’s right. The six men. The crack of bone. The scent of blood. Bruno exhales shakily, his face ashen. As best he can, he tries to quiet the throat-tearing screams in his mind.

All he knows is that he’s standing in Yusei's room, carrying a softly breathing boy in his arms. All he sees are the heavy, dusk-purple handprint bruises pressed into his neck, unable to look away. Lowering Yusei down into the cot beside the shelves of tools, Bruno takes his hand and savors the warmth of his quiet pulse.

He doesn’t notice the blood dripping down his closed fists.